


spies, lies, and second tries

by OnyxSphinx



Series: ian/yassen coparenting au [2]
Category: Alex Rider (TV 2020), Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: M/M, fellas is it gay to shoot your opponent slash lover, part two of me building up to my coparenting au, this time with weird flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-13 15:27:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28780497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: Or: Ian and Yassen run into each other again, do their weird little rituals, and propose dinner.
Relationships: Yassen Gregorovich/Ian Rider
Series: ian/yassen coparenting au [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2110101
Comments: 1
Kudos: 45





	spies, lies, and second tries

**Author's Note:**

> this is the loose sequel to my previous ian/yassen fic but you don't have to have read it to read this. anyway have fun reading about these two idiots

Ian taps his fingers impatiently against the dark wood of the table. It’s already been two hours that he’s spent sitting here in this meeting, and none of what’s been said is anything he doesn’t already know. Why they decided to pull a meeting for his last mission, he has no idea.

Well. That’s not quite true. There was quite a lot of property damage—only a fraction of it his fault, mind—and he doesn’t think that the higher-ups are terribly pleased by that. They prefer it when things are done more discreetly. Ian tried—he really did; it’s not his fault that everything went six ways to Sunday practically the instant he had stepped out of the plane onto the landing strip in Ankara.

Next to him, Jones’ lips tighten; her prim expression tipping over the edge into pinched; and she shoots him a pointed glance. He holds back a sigh and stops tapping his fingers.

It works for a few moments; but then his skin is itching again; like there’s electricity running through his veins; so he picks up the pen he’s been supplied with, and, dropping his hand into his lap, begins to click it.

Jones’ expression goes from pinched to downright unpleasant. Her pointed look turns into a glare. Ian doesn’t stop clicking the pen. If he has to put up with rubbish meetings, they’ll just have to deal with his nervous tics.

Finally, finally, the meeting draws to a close. “Any questions?” Blunt barks, from the head of the table; and there’s a murmur that generally translates into a negative. He nods. “Good. I’ll see you all at the quarterly meeting.” And with that, everyone rises and begins to file out of the room.

Ian’s just about to escape when Blunt calls his name. “Rider. A moment, if you don’t mind.” It’s not a suggestion. Ian’s body involuntarily tenses, and he forces himself to relax—he’s not in any danger.

He turns to Blunt; offers a pleasant, bland smile. “Yes?”

“You’re sure it was just local rabble?”

Ian hesitates; unsure why Blunt is questioning him. His story is true, mostly, and even better, the untruths are plausible—Blunt has no reason to suspect that he’s omitting any information. He nods. “Yes. Local gang members, as far as I can tell.” He neglects to mention that they were being directed by a man Ian knows well. “I handled it just fine,” he adds; a touch defensive.

Blunt seems satisfied. “You’d better get back to your office,” is all he says; a dismissal; and Ian’s finally free.

He spends about three more hours in his office; mostly filling out paperwork—the absurd amount of paperwork his job requires is truly astounding; he’s certain that the amount multiplies with each mission—and fielding a call or two from some colleagues.

Finally, the clock strikes seven; and his phone buzzes with his alarm; and a text from Alex asking for him to please pick up some milk and eggs on the way home. He stretches his arms out high above his head, listening to the cracking and creaking of his bones. He feels horribly old.

Given his choice of career, he supposes he is; living into one’s thirties in his line of work isn’t very common when one starts out as early as he did. Then again, he concedes, he is very good at his job.

Rising, he stows his phone in his pocket, and picks up his briefcase, striding out of his office, closing the door gently behind him; and bids the receptionist on duty—Alan—a good evening.

He makes it about ten steps from the front of the Royal and General Bank before a familiar figure falls in step by his side. Neither of them speak, just walking in silence, side by side; before Ian says, “The wound doesn’t look too bad.”

Yassen hums. “It should be healed in a week or two,” he replies, hands in the pockets of his long, black overcoat. They get onto a bus, and Yassen takes the seat next to him; giving Ian the opportunity to turn and observe it properly. A bullet had grazed his temple during their skirmish in Turkey, and it’s still bright red, though it looks like it’s been cleaned in the days since Ian last saw him.

“It might not even scar,” Ian offers. “You won’t have to worry about it being an identifying mark.” Not that it would make terribly much difference; the assassin is already very recognisable by the scar that spans from his temple over his cheek, stopping shy of the corner of his lip.

A small smile twists at Yassen’s lips. “And your own wounds?” he asks; referring to the injuries Ian sustained from the aforementioned skirmish.

Ian grimaces. “The leg’s still healing up,” he mutters; confidingly. “I’m banned from running, though.”

“How will you ever recover,” Yassen says, drily. He reaches out, hand hovering over the lapel of Ian’s jacket; oddly hesitant; and then he says, “And the others?”

That’s a bit more personal; two bullets, one grazing his chest, just below the hollow of his neck; the other, lodged firmly in his shoulder. It took them two hours to properly extract all the shrapnel. He offers a sardonic smile. “You’re a damn good shot.”

Yassen sighs. “It is nothing personal.”

“I know.”

The silence stretches between them; and then Ian says, “This is my stop.” He doesn’t make any move to get up, though.

“You should go,” Yassen says. “It would not do to return late, especially with a child at home.” He doesn’t make any move to shift his legs to let Ian go, either.

Ian turns; watching Yassen’s impassive expression; and finally, he says, “Do you want to get dinner some time?”

That cracks the mask for a moment; a flicker of surprise, and something that seems almost pleased, showing for the barest of moments, and then Yassen says, “You have my number.”

Ian does. “Right,” he says. The overhead announces they’ve arrived at his stop. “I really should get going.” And then, against his better judgement, he leans forward to press a quick kiss to Yassen’s lips.

When he pulls back, Yassen’s eyes, dark and usually flinty, have something of a softness to them. “You’ll call, then?” he asks.

Ian nods. “I will,” he says, and then rises, making his way off the bus and setting off to the grocer’s.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [autisticharrow](https://autisticharrow.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
